Collections Are So Mainstream Now
by Elisabeth Hill
Summary: They're like cell phones. Now playing: Fifteen Ways to Become Your Evil Future Self.
1. 1: Astronaut Training

By the third day after coming home from the North Pole, the Fentons had disconnected the doorbell, taken the phone off the hook, and tried to turn the ghost shield into a human shield. It was only after the last exploded impressively and slimed the assembled paparazzi that the reporters finally backed off. (Getting covered in ecto-gunk from a failed invention was an everyday occurrence in the Fenton household, but the newsmedia saw things a little differently.)

So the knock on the door the morning of the fifth day came as something of a surprise.

The woman in the crisp charcoal-grey suit did a double take when Jack Fenton, larger than life in his usual day-glo orange jumpsuit, threw open the door, bellowed, "Sorry, we don't want any!", and slammed the door in her face.

Or tried to. But the woman wedged her foot between the door and the frame, and before Jack had time to react she'd forced a hand through the crack, flashing a badge. "Mr. Fenton? Agent Claire Adams. I'm with the government. Might I have a word with your son?"

It took a lot of very fast explaining that she really wasn't there to kidnap Danny and whisk him away to some mysterious secret facility for 'study' and dissection, but finally Agent Adams managed to convince Jack and Maddie to let her in. The family assembled in the living room, the agent alone opposite them.

"I thought Danny was officially wiped from your files?" Maddie demanded, before the agent had a chance to say anything. "A token of gratitude from the government?"

"Yeah, and a way better 'token of gratitude' than those stupid statues," Danny muttered.

The agent ignored this aside. "That is true. Your son is officially no longer a person of interest to the government of the United States. All detain and capture orders have been cancelled, and the files on Danny Phantom have been closed."

"But not destroyed."

The agent shifted uncomfortably under Danny's glare. "No. It's imperative that we retain intelligence on individuals who might compromise national security."

"She means they keep information on possible threats," Jazz translated, and the look of utter confusion on her father's face vanished, replaced by a scowl.

"But Danny's not -"

"We also," the agent interrupted, "need to be able to contact individuals with…extraordinary capabilities, should a situation requiring the aid of such individuals arise." She leaned forward slightly, looking Danny directly in the eye. "And that's why I'm here."

"What, you need my help?"

Agent Adams sat back, crossing her legs. "Early this morning, we received an unscheduled and highly unusual transmission from the International Space Station. There are three astronauts currently aboard, and this morning at 0400 hours, they radioed our ground base in Houston to report that they were being held hostage."

"Let me guess. Vlad wants to come home."

The agent nodded once. "And all charges against him dropped, and his public record erased."

"I guess you're not planning to negotiate."

"We _can't_ negotiate. We can't fulfill his terms, and based on past experience, we're highly unlikely to reach a compromise that's acceptable to both parties. We need to end this situation before it can escalate."

"So what do you want me to do?"

The agent seemingly ignored the question. "There's a manned supply mission that was scheduled to leave in a month. We've managed to push it up to four days from today. We'll enter into negotiations to buy us some time, but it's not the negotiations that are going to save those three people." She paused, and took a deep breath. "We want to put you on that shuttle."

When Danny didn't answer, the agent pushed ahead. "I have clearance to put you through a crash course version of basic astronaut training. You won't get the full course, and probably you wouldn't be able to operate the shuttle on your own afterwards, but it would be better than sending you up completely unprepared."

Silence.

"I know it's a lot to ask. If you don't want to -"

"Are you KIDDING?" The agent was the only one who didn't jump at Danny's excited shout. "I've only wanted to be an astronaut since I was six! Of COURSE I want to!"

"Excellent." For the first time, Agent Adams actually smiled. "You should go and get packed. We'll be leaving as soon as you're ready."

* * *

AN: For anyone who is eagerly awaiting updates for Doors, they are on their way. However, I have undertaken NaNoWriMo and discovered that no, I do not have time for school, a 50k-word novel, and fanfiction during the month of November. Until what time I manage to get my act together and actually write more of Doors, I offer instead a collection of one-shots, two-shots, AUs, sneak previews, and other assorted old things which have made their way onto my tumblr but not onto for a variety of reasons. I hope you enjoy, and I will do my best to return to your irregularly-scheduled updates soon!

Oh, and the agent can be with SHIELD if you wish.


	2. 2: Mayoral Duties

So that's it. The day is saved, evil's defeated, everybody gets what they deserve, and they all live happily ever after. Fade to black, roll credits.

Sure, that works in the movies. But in real life? Not so simple.

I didn't expect being mayor to be _easy_. Heck, I expected it to be hard. And full of politics and other things that are only slightly more interesting than Lancer's English class. (Trust me, nothing – _nothing_ – is _less_ interesting than Lancer's English class.) Trying to combine mayoring and schoolwork (and occasional ghost-hunting on the side) just makes it worse. And yet, I let Sam talk me into it _anyway_. Partly because Sam can be really persuasive when she wants to, and partly because I know she's right. This is our chance to change things. Even with that big, shiny new statue outside, who knows what the public opinion of Danny Phantom's gonna be next week? We need somebody in charge of Amity Park who knows what we're really up against, and who won't do something stupid to try and protect the town. And who won't just brush us off as 'a bunch of kids'.

The fact that everyone would have to listen to me, and that there would probably be a couple of babes who wouldn't mind saying they were dating the Mayor, was definitely a bonus. Don't get me wrong, I'd do anything for my friends (even eating – shudder – _vegetables_), but the things I'd do to get a date are a very close second.

If I'd known my mayoral duties were going to include _this_, though, I might have reconsidered. And by 'reconsidered', I mean 'run screaming in the other direction until out of range of a kick from one of Sam's steel-toed boots'.

That…_thing_ is still sitting where I left it, _watching_ me. Waiting to see when I'll crack. If this keeps up, I think that'll take about five more minutes.

It's totally impossible to please. If it would just _tell_ me what it wants, then maybe we could stop playing this stupid game. But no. No, I have to fall at its feet and cater to its every whim, and it doesn't even have the decency to give me a hint. So I have to guess.

"How about steak? Everybody likes steak." I add the plate to the mouthwatering assortment of meaty treats on my desk.

It sniffs at the steak, then puts its nose in the air and turns its back. Just like it's done with everything I've offered it.

"Please don't tell me you eat that rabbit food Sam likes," I groan. It just blinks at me, sleepily, before laying its head on its paws and staring at me. Its expression says, pretty loud and clear, that I don't measure up.

"Fine then. Starve," I tell it, before getting up and leaving the mayor's office, slamming the door behind me. It _should_ be _my_ office, but try telling that to that…that _thing_ in there.

I may have to never talk to Sam again for roping me into this. But…well, it really isn't her fault. Probably. Maybe. How was she supposed to know?

Then again, you'd think _somebody_ could have mentioned that one of the mayoral duties was going to be taking care of Vlad's cat.


	3. 3: Firstborn

AN: Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed! I really appreciate it.

The only explanation I will offer for this is that I have seen quite a few fics where Vlad kidnaps Danny as a baby and raises him as his own. And why should Danny have all the fun?

* * *

Jasmine Masters twisted her hair up into something that resembled a bun, and then let it go with a sigh, frowning at the mirror. The girl in the reflection stared back mournfully, looking very unhappy about the stiff, several-years-too-young-for-her knee-length pastel blue dress with the Peter Pan collar and puffed sleeves.

"You know, it can be very damaging to a young woman's self-image to force her to dress like a _child_," she muttered to herself, brushing back her bangs with a black Alice band. She turned, cautiously, and wrinkled her nose at the mirror. "This dress is even worse than last year's."

"What about last year?"

Jasmine spun around, relaxing slightly when she saw her father standing in the doorway. "I didn't hear you come in."

She got a half-smile in return. "You look positively radiant."

"I look like I'm six." Jasmine snuck a glance over her shoulder at the mirror again. "Do I have to go?"

"Jasmine, you know that this is -"

"- the most important event of the year, and the only thing you really ask of me, I know." She crossed her arms, and then realized that made her look even younger, and quickly uncrossed them again. "I hate these parties. I always have to sit with a bunch of other tycoon's kids and they either spend the whole time talking about stupid stuff or trying to steal the wine."

"They do?"

"Of course they do. They're fourteen year olds at a gathering of adults who're completely engrossed in something that holds absolutely no interest for them. They're going to push the boundaries as much as they can." Jasmine rolled her eyes. "It's so…juvenile." She counted to five, slowly, in her head, as she turned to face the mirror again, and added, "And these dresses don't help."

Just like she'd expected, her father's frown deepened, and he took a step towards her. "What's the matter with your dresses?"

"Oh, I don't know. They're just so...little girlish." She forced down a hint of a smile. "No one is going to take me seriously if I'm wearing pastels. And you never know, I might just want to break into the business world someday." Adding 'like my dear father' would be laying it on a bit too thick, she decided.

Her father put a hand on her shoulder, and she looked up, trying to look innocent. The smile she got in return said that she'd have to try a lot harder. "I'll make you a deal. If you come to the party, play nice with the other guests, and don't attempt to train the Lodges' youngest to salivate at the sound of a bell -"

"- that was _once -_"

"- then I'll take you dress shopping."

"And let me choose my _own_ dress this time?" Jasmine folded her arms again, wishing that it didn't make the puffed sleeves stand up so awkwardly.

Her father pouted mockingly, raising one hand to his chest in a parody of injury. "Jasmine, don't you trust your own father?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?"

"Mm, no, I probably don't." Leaning down, he pressed a kiss onto the top of her head. "We'll be leaving in about ten minutes."

"Right. Just let me fix my hair."

…


	4. 4: The End

It's the first proper sleep he's had in what feels like forever.

Part of him doesn't want to wake up, doesn't want to let go of that blissful feeling of sleeping deeply and soundly, without being woken by his ghost sense just as he's finally starting to drift off. But sleep is retreating into a distant memory, and try as he might, he can't seem to call it back. Finally, he gives up trying to hang onto the last remaining fragments, and pushes himself up into a sitting position.

He can't remember the last time he felt this rested after a night's sleep. Usually he wakes up almost as exhausted as he was the night before, with some additional aches and pains from the night's ghost hunting as a bonus. But there aren't any aches or pains this morning, and for once, he doesn't feel the least bit tired. Actually, it's just the opposite. A kind of restless energy is building inside him, and he practically itches to get up, get moving, do something that isn't lying here -

- _on the asphalt?_

The first tiny squiggle of doubt begins to worm its way into his brain. Something isn't right here. Why is he outside? Why hadn't anyone - or anything - woken him up? Why is he still wearing his clothes?

_What the hell happened to my clothes?_

A sudden feeling of deja vu rushes over him as he stares down at the black and blue t-shirt and dark-coloured jeans that have apparently replaced his usual attire. It's like their usual colours have…_reversed_, somehow. But the last time something like that happened to him was -

But he isn't anywhere near the portal, or - he looks around, and in the faint, greyish pre-dawn light, can't see any landmarks he recognises. He's nowhere near home.

_What the hell happened to me?_

He has to move, to do something, or he's going to totally lose it. He jumps up, looking all around for any clue that might explain how he wound up asleep in the street with colour-reversed clothes. And, unfortunately, he finds it.

The whole street behind him is nothing but rubble, shattered buildings lying in bits on either side of the road. A trench torn right down the middle of the street goes deep enough to reveal the sewer pipes below, asphalt rippled up on either side like the wake left by a boat.

Both the trench and the trail of rubble ends about where he's standing.

There's a feeling, not exactly like nausea but in the same family, beginning to build in the pit of his stomach as he looks down. He can't help it.

Feet below where he's standing casually on thin air without even realising it, there's something small and pitiful and crumpled lying at the very end of the trench. Something vaguely human-shaped, crusted in a rusty brownish-red and twisted in ways that no human should be.

He has to look away when he recognises the mop of dark hair.


	5. 5: Diet Soda

AN: This is the first chapter-thingy of an AU I began yonks ago, and decided recently that I might like to resurrect. I'd like to know what you guys think!

* * *

As famous last words go, "BOGUS!" is not one of the top ten. It doesn't even make the top hundred. This is partly because it's an incredibly lame thing to have recorded as one's final utterance in this vale of tears, and partly because, in this case at least, it wasn't technically a _last_ word at all.

Of course, Vlad doesn't know that at the time. All he knows is that the portal's exploded, he's very probably going to die without ever telling Maddie he loves her, and his last words _suck_.

If you'd asked him, a few minutes ago, if the Proto-Portal was dangerous, he'd probably have laughed and assured you that the only thing the Portal might be dangerous to is Jack Fenton's seemingly irrepressible good spirits when it inevitably fails to work. But that was _before_ Jack turned it on. Now it feels like he's been hit by a truck, possibly one that was carrying liquid nitrogen, and as the solid blast of spectral energy tears through Vlad and freezes him to the core, all he can think is _I__'__m going to die_.

_No._

_I__'__m dying._

He can barely hear Jack's shout of "V-Man!", thin and somehow far away even though Vlad knows they're both in the same tiny basement lab. Maddie's scream is equally distant, and even through the numbing cold, he feels a flicker of warmth at the sound of her voice, his heart pounding at the thought that she cares enough about him to be so terrified. Maybe she'll break down at his funeral and confess that she was madly in love with him all along. The thought is morbid, but at this point it looks like the best he can hope for.

_I don__'__t want to die, I__'__m too young to die, I__'__ve got too much to do, I don__'__t want to dieeeee_

And then, as suddenly as it began, it stops. There's still a chill clinging to his spine, but the feeling that thousands of icicles are being pounded through his every cell has finally stopped. And somehow, it's a little anticlimactic. He's certain he was dying, knows it on some level beyond mere observation of the facts, can feel it, as the old cliché says, in his bones. And yet, he's still on his feet, and that's still the lab around him, and there's Jack and Maddie, both looking at him as...if…

…as if they've just seen a –

Thankfully, that's when he passes out.

…

There are many, many things that one wouldn't want to hear immediately on waking from total, blissful unconsciousness. "Right, now do the other kneecap," is probably one of them, as is, "Do any of you know how long it takes for concrete to set?" "Did anyone call 911?" is pretty bad as well, although then you have some clue that the future will likely not contain broken kneecaps or large amounts of chickenwire and several fathoms of water, and even though it's probably going to contain enormous amounts of pain, there is also a high possibility of cute nurses.

For Vlad Masters, hearing the love of his life begin to say, "I think he's awa-", only to be instantly interrupted by his best friend's overexuberant shout of "VLADDY!" are the worst imaginable sounds to wake up to, mostly because they promise a bone-crushing bear hug from Jack.

The hug is more excruciating than he expected. Apparently, Vlad is still more than a little sore from the portal incident, and Jack was seriously worried about his friend. It's nearly a full minute before Vlad can get a breath, and even then it's only because Maddie – _thank you, there is a God_ – says, "Jack, I think you're choking him."

Jack drops Vlad – literally, as Vlad hits the bed – _wait a second, bed?_ – with a thump and a jolt that makes him grind his teeth in pain – and takes a step back, letting Vlad see that they're back in his dorm room. _When _-_?_

"We were worried about you, V-Man!" Jack exclaims, and Vlad finds himself wondering, not for the first time, whether his friend _ever_ turns down the volume. "Well, Maddie was worried," Jack adds quickly, "but I knew you'd be fine. Takes more than a Proto-Portal to put the V-Man down, eh?" He punctuates this with an elbow to Vlad's ribs, and Vlad tries unsuccessfully not to wince.

"What happened?" he asks, aware of how lame that must sound.

Jack and Maddie exchange a _look_, and Vlad tries to ignore the sudden feeling that he's just swallowed two tons of lead. "How bad is it?" He tries not to let the thought into his head, but it's there already, grinning nastily and prodding him towards an unhappy realization.

"Well, you're not dead," Jack blurts, and Maddie shoots him a glare that even Jack Fenton can't miss the meaning of. "And maybe I should just stop talking now and let Maddie tell you."

Probably a phrase as ominous as, "Well, you're not dead," should have Vlad more worried, but he can't bring himself to be too terrified, since Jack has just, though unwittingly, all but banished the nasty sneaking thought that was trying to bring itself to Vlad's attention. If he's not dead, then there's no way he can be a –

"Actually, you were really lucky," Maddie begins, biting her bottom lip slightly in a way that's just totally adorable. "It looks like the only real damage was cosmetic…"

"Yeah, who knows what might have happened if Maddie hadn't stopped me from pouring that diet soda into the ecto-filtrator!" Jack's smile slips a few notches when he notices that neither of his friends are looking particularly pleased with him, and asks, "What?"

"Wait just one second. What do you mean, _the only real damage was cosmetic_?" Vlad demands, his brain having finally caught up to his ears.

"Well, you're not missing any pieces, if that's what you're worried about!"

"Jack?" Maddie asks, in that sweet, patient voice that means she's a few words away from becoming very nasty and _im_patient, and you had better watch where you tread. It says volumes about the seriousness of the situation that Jack actually notices.

"Um. Right. Letting Maddie talk."

"I don't really care _who_ talks! Would someone please just tell me _what happened to me?_"

Both Jack and Maddie flinch slightly at Vlad's outburst.

"Well," Maddie begins, slowly, like she's talking someone off the edge of a cliff, "the portal didn't quite act the way we'd expected -"

"Right, right, and I got hit in the face when it suddenly _exploded outwards_."

"Um, yes, and -" She's speechless. That's impossible. Maddie always has something to say, always something intelligent and thoughtful and _she__'__s speechless_.

This can't be good.

She's not looking at him, she's – oh, she's rummaging through her bag. When she straightens up, she's holding a little black circular thing. She hands it to him, without a word.

Possibly no one has ever faced a handheld powder compact with such apprehension before.

The mirror isn't really designed to give anyone a good look at themselves, since its purpose is mainly deceiving young women into thinking they need more makeup, so at first Vlad doesn't see what has both Jack and Maddie so alarmed. It's only by bits and pieces that he manages to put it together, and when he does, it seems entirely anticlimactic.

"All right, so it bleached my hair and now I look about forty years older. This is…" It's not the terror he'd half expected, which is nothing short of a huge relief, but he's not exactly jumping for joy over the unwanted results. Still, at least he's not dead.

"Totally bogus?" Jack offers helpfully, and Vlad can't suppress a shudder at the thought of how close that had been to being his last word, ever.

"Actually, that wasn't what I was thinking at _all_."

"Oh." But it would take a lot more than that to subdue Jack Fenton for any length of time, and in the next instant he's already recovered his usual energy. "You should've seen yourself right after we -"

"A-_hmm_?"

"Well, after _Maddie_ shut the portal off. I swear your eyes were glowing!"

"What?" Now that the scary part is over with, the world's beginning to take on a more familiar shape again. Not to mention the fact that sheer relief is buoying Vlad up faster than a hot air balloon. "Jack, that's impossible."

"That's what we thought," Maddie says, and she's starting to sound excited. "Theoretically, spectral energy shouldn't have any real effect on something from our dimension. They just shouldn't be able to interact. But apparently our theories were off base. We'll have to do more research on the effects of spectral energy on physical objects, and living things especially. A _lot_ more research." Her whole face lights up, the way it does whenever she's talking about a new project or an interesting new development, and it makes her even more beautiful, if that's possible.

"Well, I don't want to be your test subject," Vlad says quickly, and Maddie laughs. God, she's got a wonderful laugh. "I think that _once_ was more than enough."

"If the portal had worked, we would have -" Jack starts, and Maddie sighs.

"If the portal had worked, we wouldn't be sitting here with ideas for new experiments. And the results will help us design a _new_ portal."

"One that works?"

"That would be the idea, yes," Vlad interjects, feeling a little bit left out. After all, _he__'__s_ the one who was nearly killed by a blast of supposedly harmless spectral energy, right? Shouldn't Maddie be talking to _him_ in that reassuring voice?

She's nodding, what looks like it's trying very hard to be a stern expression on her face. "But this time, Jack, let me check your calculations _before_ you turn it all on."

Nobody says anything. They just manage to meet each other's eyes, and suddenly they're all laughing, the kind of laughter that appears without warning and comes from somewhere deep down. It's three in the morning laughter, drunken on sheer relief and released terror, the kind of laughter that appears unannounced, feeds on everyone around it until it borders on hysteria, and leaves you breathless and with aching sides. It comes out of nowhere, catching them all by surprise.

And Vlad, happy to let go of his worries for even just a little while, barely notices the chill still clinging to him.


	6. 6: Otherworld

AN: Very, extremely short one today. Chalk it up to exhaustion and a complete and utter lack of will to do anything. Set during _Prisoners of Love._

* * *

"_Wow, this place is amazing!"_

_"No, it's not. It's creepy."_

As soon as I said it, I felt awful about lying to Sam, even by omission. Yeah, the Ghost Zone was creepy. But not because it was so strange, so otherworldly, so…_weird_.

What was creepy about it was that, weird as it was, creepy as it was, being in the Ghost Zone didn't freak me out half as much as I'd thought it would. Actually, it felt familiar. Comfortable. Like I belonged there.

And that scared me more than any floating doors or mysterious green swirling ecto-goop ever could.


	7. 7: Firstborn, Part the Second

AN: Oh, look what I wrote more of.

* * *

The party was more boring than memorizing the various neurotransmitters in the human body had been. Admittedly, this was at least in part because Jasmine had said a few perfunctory greetings, faking a huge and brilliant and, most importantly, genuine smile for the few people in the room who actually mattered, and then retreated to the table holding the punch. After doing this for nearly sixteen years, she'd learned how to read the room, how to tell whose business would be merging with whose in the year to come and whose would be acquired, who was on the rise and who was scrambling to stay on top. In other words, who it was worth trying to impress, and who she could get away with making the absolute minimum effort with and still not get shouted at afterwards for reflecting poorly on her father.

She recognized most of the people in the room from last year's party, with a few exceptions. The same crop of kids had returned, a year older but not any less obnoxious. The Lodges' daughter was growing up into a real spoiled brat, and for a few seconds she entertained the thought of using the girl as a test subject for a little harmless psychological research, before remembering her deal with her father.

Jasmine sighed, and, making sure no one was watching, leaned an elbow on the table, resting her chin on her hand. Unladylike, but comfortable. If she had half her father's talent at working a room, she wouldn't be sitting here alone. She didn't know how he did it; after about five minutes of pretending to care about someone's Akita or the hot new property they'd just acquired, she had to fight down a huge and overwhelming desire to yawn. Which would be far more rude even than putting her elbows on the punch table.

Everyone was just so _phony,_ and she found it hard to care about their put-on personas. Sometimes she wondered what they all did behind closed doors, if they were really as stiff as they seemed or as suave as they apparently thought they were, what dirty little secrets they were all hiding. Sometimes she'd try to deduce, from their body language and the things they'd say. Sometimes she'd just make things up. There had to be real people in there, somewhere, past the layers of formalities and appearances.

If so, though, these people were pretty damn good at hiding them. Although not ever quite as good as they believed they were. Jasmine knew, for example, that Mr. Drysdale was not sleeping with his wife, that Mrs. Pickford was addicted to shopping, that the Mansons were afraid to take their daughter out in public (although that was practically common knowledge), and that Mr. Wayne was hiding _something_. She didn't know exactly what, yet, but she was fairly confident she'd find out eventually.

"Hey."

Jasmine looked up, and found herself looking directly into the green eyes of a boy she'd never met before. Almost without her realizing it, her lips curved up into a smile. "Is this seat taken?"

"No, go ahead." She straightened up, making sure she didn't have her elbows on the table. She'd already blown the first impression, but old habits died hard.

"You look bored," the boy observed, as Jasmine observed the boy. White-blonde hair, slicked back with too much gel – either it was naturally unruly or this guy was a narcissist. He was tall, and a little bony, and wearing a blazer that suited him about as well as her dress did her, and totally waiting for an answer to his question.

"You don't look terribly enthralled yourself," she answered, scooting her chair over slightly so that he could sit down beside her. "Don't you like business parties?"

The guy's mouth quirked slightly, into something that looked like it was halfway to a smile. "Love them." He sighed, and then leaned over on the table, putting his head down on his folded arms. "Did your parents make you come?"

"Something like that."

"Mine dragged me along. Usually I get to skip these stupid things, but they want me to meet Mr. Masters' daughter." He made a face, and Jasmine silently thanked whatever powers might be running the universe that years of trying to outmaneuver her father had given her a really good poker face. "They're probably going to try and set us up."

Jasmine wondered if her father knew about that particular plan, and what he thought of it. "Wow. Imagine that."

The guy shifted slightly, so that he was looking directly at her. "It's just kind of insulting, you know? And this Jasmine's probably just like the rest of these spoiled, self-centred princesses."

"Oh, really?" Glancing back up at the room, Jasmine noticed that her father was walking straight towards the table, and had to pinch herself to keep from laughing. This was going to be priceless.

"Yeah. All of these society girls turn out to be total airheads, spoiled brats, or – Mr. Masters!"

Jasmine's father looked from the boy to his daughter, and smiled. "There you are, Jasmine. I was just coming to ask you if you'd met Elliot Bigland yet, but it looks like you two found each other on your own."

The look on the boy's face was worth sitting through the whole boring party for.


	8. 8: A Good Man

Jack Fenton was not what anyone would call a smart man. Intelligent in his own laser-focused way, perhaps, inventive and endlessly imaginative, with bottomless reserves of optimism, but not smart. Never smart.

But that hadn't ever bothered him. Because Jack, whatever else he might be, was a good man. Maybe he wasn't so smart, but he cared fiercely about the people he loved, and would do anything to protect them. Maybe he'd caused a few explosions in the name of science, but he'd never hurt anyone. At least, not intentionally.

But you know what they say about the road to hell.

He knew his best friend hadn't forgiven him. But even after Vlad stopped talking to Jack, even after he changed his number and the letters Jack sent started to come back unopened, Jack kept trying. Because Jack Fenton might be a tactless, clueless idiot, but he was a good man. He would never let someone he cared about down. And Vlad had every right not to forgive him. After all, Jack hadn't even forgiven himself.

Time would heal things. Time, and space, and there was no way Jack was giving up on his best friend. But twenty years of returned Christmas cards and no contact would start to wear anyone down.

And then the invitation to the reunion came. And even though it was a formal invitation to an official event, Jack recognized it for what it really was: a white flag. After all these years, Vlad was finally giving him a second chance. And this time, Jack wasn't going to blow it.

He blew it.

The reunion was a disaster. Jack couldn't remember exactly what happened, but he knew that his best friend's mansion had been trashed – by a ghost, no less! – and that it was somehow, inexplicably, inevitably, his fault. There was no way Vlad was ever going to forgive him now. Not that he deserved to be forgiven. He wouldn't be surprised if Vlad never talked to him again.

But for whatever reason, he _did_. And Jack couldn't help but see it as gaining another chance. Every time their paths crossed, Jack tried harder and harder, maybe to deserve the chances he got, maybe to make amends, maybe just to prove to himself that he hadn't given up. But every single time, it all went wrong. Or rather, _he_ did something wrong. And as the gap kept growing, the more Jack was determined to close it. Was what he'd done really so awful, so unforgivable? Was _he_ really so awful?

He couldn't be. Because Jack Fenton was a good man. And good men didn't give up on people, didn't let the people they cared about down. No matter how hard it was. No matter how much it might hurt. Good men didn't just leave people.

When Vlad revealed his damning secret, when he held the world hostage, no one was as shocked as Jack. He'd spent the last twenty-odd years convinced that he'd done something wrong, that he'd always been doing something wrong, that something inside of him was irreversibly flawed. That it was his fault he'd lost his best friend, that he deserved every blow and every rejection he'd got. And now he knew the truth: he'd been an idiot. A blind, stupid, oblivious _idiot_. He'd put the people he cared most about, his family, in danger over and over again because he'd been too stupid to give up and see how much Vlad had changed.

It felt good, after that, to leave Vlad floating in space. To see the look of shock and betrayal on his best friend's – _former_ best friend's – face. To know that he'd hurt Vlad almost as badly as Vlad had hurt him. And it continued to feel good right up until Jack's ship landed and his family was waiting for him. Until his wife flung her arms around him and squeezed so hard it hurt and whispered, "You did the right thing."

That was when he knew. He hadn't. He'd been angry, and he'd done something stupid and irreversible. He'd lashed out. He'd pushed his best friend away. He'd hurt Vlad, as much as he could, and he'd _enjoyed_ it.

He'd done the exact same thing his former best friend had once done.

Jack Fenton was not what anyone would call a smart man. But he was smart enough to know that he was not a good man.

* * *

AN: I aten't dead.

I don't fault Jack for what happened. But I think Jack might.


	9. 9: Firstborn, Part the Third

A soft _click_ from behind him was the only thing that told Elliot that he wasn't alone in the study. Leaving the papers he'd been rifling through, he turned, to find himself staring straight down the barrel of a small handgun. It was aimed at his head, and held by an unusually stony-faced Jasmine Masters. When he met her eyes, he noticed with interest that the gun didn't waver so much as a millimeter.

Still, he tried. "You wouldn't."

Jasmine's voice was surprisingly soft. "You have no idea what I would or wouldn't do."

"Do you even know how to shoot that thing?"

Jasmine raised an eyebrow. "I'm the only daughter of one of the richest and most influential men in the world and I've never had a bodyguard. What do you _think_?"

Elliot had to concede the point. "Are you going to turn me in?"

Jasmine smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. "That depends."

"Depends?"

"On whether you try anything stupid." She waved the gun. "I hate to sound like a cliché, but…hands where I can see them, please."

Elliot sighed, and gave up his attempt to draw the dart gun, cleverly disguised as a pen, which was tucked uselessly into his back pocket. "All right. How did you find out?"

"You're not exactly subtle." Her face softened slightly. "How did you find out that I wanted to learn guitar? I thought nobody knew about that."

"You have your secrets, I have mine." Elliot glanced at the papers now spread across Jasmine's father's desk with a sigh. They'd looked so promising, too. "How long have you known?"

"Since the second date." Jasmine waved the gun again. "But I needed proof. What are you looking for, anyway? And who are you really?"

Elliot looked from the gun to Jasmine's face, and decided that talking his way out of this one wasn't going to be an option. He sighed heavily, raising both hands above his head in a conciliatory gesture and noticing how Jasmine tensed. "All right. No point in lying about it now." He moved to stuff his hands contritely into his pockets, but Jasmine shook her head. "Your father's business practices have been…well, suspect."

"But my father's been in business for decades. Why're they only investigating now?"

Elliot laughed. "Now? The IRS has been trying to pin something on him for nearly sixteen years. Your dad has really good lawyers."

Jasmine smiled, a real smiled, with a touch of pride. "So they had to hire a private detective to pretend to be interested in me to dig something up?"

Elliot didn't feel it would be polite to correct her. Not to mention that it would blow what little cover he had left. So he shrugged.

Jasmine nodded, still smiling, although now there was a hint of sadness in it. "I'm not surprised." Elliot reached, surreptitiously, for his dart gun, only to see Jasmine's smile vanish as she snapped the pistol back up to point at his head. "But that leaves the question of what to do with you."

Elliot took a deep breath, and a risk. "Well, you could always help me."

Jasmine blinked. The gun still didn't waver, but Elliot got the very strong impression that this was more because she was sideswiped than because she was still focused on him as a threat. "Wh-why would I want to do that?" And then, her tone turning suspicious, "If you try to say it's because you've fallen madly in love with me for real, I will shoot you in the leg and leave you here for my father to find."

Elliot hastily reconsidered his tactics. "No, no, no! I wouldn't insult your intelligence like that." He noticed with some satisfaction that Jasmine smiled again at that. "Look. I just want information about your dad's business practices. There must be something you want that I can help you get. We could sort of…you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours, sort of thing?"

"Now you're talking." Jasmine looked him up and down, calculatingly. Elliot was starting to really wish she'd put the gun down, and not just because it would make it easier for him to tranq her and get out of Dodge. She bit her lower lip, looking lost in thought for a few seconds, and then said, "I want to find my mother."

It was Elliot's turn to be sideswiped. "You what now?"

"My mother." There was a hint of steel in Jasmine's voice. "I have no idea who she is, if she's out there somewhere, if she even knows I'm still alive. I haven't been able to get anything out of my father. You want information on his business? I want information on my mother."

Elliot did what might have been the stupidest thing he could have done. He laughed. "Yeah, you, and the paparazzi, and the news media, and everyone with a house in the Hamptons. Trust me, if the tabloids haven't found out who she was -" He stopped, realizing that the look on Jasmine's face was turning murderous.

"Well, if you can't do it, then I don't really need anything from you," she snapped. "My father won't be very happy to hear about how heartbroken his only daughter was to find out that her first boyfriend's been _lying_ to her. And he _really_ won't be happy when he finds out what her boyfriend's been lying to her about…"

Elliot muttered something uncomplimentary. "And you've got all the cards. You really are your father's daughter."

Jasmine's smile returned, almost blinding. "So, have we got a deal? I turn a blind eye and let you keep on using me as cover, and you tell me everything you find out about my mother?"

"Blind eye?" Elliot laughed again, this time nervously. "No way. I'm going into something this dangerous, I want your help."

Jasmine frowned. "No promises."

Elliot considered this for a moment, glancing at the gun in Jasmine's hand, and decided that this was probably as good as he was going to get. "Deal."


	10. 10: Post-Human Consciousness

_There's no such thing as a 'half-ghost'._

It takes everything Maddie has not to react when her son - the _ghost_ of her son - stumbles into the kitchen half-awake and drops heavily into a chair. He reaches for the box of cereal, and blinks blearily when his hand passes through it. Maddie quickly focuses on the device lying eviscerated on the table in front of her, pretending she hasn't seen.

Her hands shake slightly as she picks at the circuitry, and she grabs the blowtorch on the table beside her to disguise it. She isn't sure that this is the right thing to do, to let the ghost keep up this delusion of a half-life, but she doesn't know what else to do. It took them nearly a month to figure out what was going on, and by that point it had been too late. Danny wasn't telling them anything, and he wasn't going anywhere.

This isn't what she wanted for her baby boy. This isn't what she'd want for _anyone_, but if she's being honest, it's easy to forget that most ghosts were people, once. It's easy to turn the study of ghosts into an objective science, easy to put a soul under a microscope.

This isn't easy. This ghost is her son, and it isn't objective or scientific or easy.

When they'd realised that Danny wasn't going to come to them, she'd wanted to go to him, talk to him, try to explain what had happened and help him find peace. It was Jack's idea to let Danny – or the scraps of emotion and consciousness that's all that's left of her precious Danny – keep up his charade, keep pretending he's keeping his supposed half-life a secret. Jack seemed to think that Danny just needed to deal with some sort of unfinished business, since he hadn't turned malevolent. And Danny had seemed so proud after defeating that meat-monster, so…_purposeful_, that Maddie couldn't bring herself to disagree.

But it had been the wrong choice. After he'd turned on the town, even attacking them – his own parents! - at City Hall, even Jack had agreed they couldn't sit by and hope their little boy would work it out for himself anymore. Something had to be done before he lost what little remained of his humanity.

They couldn't sit him down and talk to him, not now. His conviction that he's still at least half-alive is too deeply entrenched to shake now without destroying him, or driving him completely mad and turning him into the kind of monster they want to keep him from becoming. In fact, it's probably one of the only things keeping him tied to Amity Park.

In the meantime, though, all they can really do is play along. Trying to keep him from hurting anyone – including himself – would have been hard enough, but trying to do it while playing at ignorance is killing her. And it doesn't help that Danny doesn't seem to realise that he's losing his grip, convinced that he was framed for what he did. They'll have to make him realise it for himself somehow, but that's starting to seem more and more unlikely.

Maddie pours her attention into welding shut a connection. When she flips her goggles back up off of her head, her son – the _ghost_ - is gone, a rather forlorn-looking bowl of cereal sitting abandoned at his place. She sighs, and sets the welding torch down. Does he _really_ think that no one notices when he disappears like that? He's so proud of how well he's kept his little secret, when half the town must know by now.

She takes a moment to compose herself before she slides her chair back from the table, pushing herself up with a little difficulty. She'd better go find Jack and get after Danny before he hurts someone or they lose their window to capture him without shattering his illusions.

Hopefully this latest invention works. She snaps the case back into place over the exposed circuit boards and flips the sleek metal box over, flipping the 'on' switch. No time for a trial run – they'll just have to hope.

Like it or not, the piece of post-human consciousness that was once her son _will_ be moving on.

* * *

AN: Inspired by a bit of devastating headcanon/AU from sassyphantomfrost on tumblr.


	11. 11: Temporal Restrictions

"Hey, Clockwork?"

"Daniel, I thought we agreed that you could study here so long as you didn't bother me," the Master of Time replied, without turning away from the scene even now playing itself out in the glass in front of him.

"Yeah, but polynomials are confusing." Danny rotated slowly until he was hanging upside down, legs crossed, in midair over his math textbook. "And I have a question."

"So long as it doesn't concern polynomials."

"Ghosts are the spirits of dead people, right?"

This dragged Clockwork's attention away from whatever historical turning point he was watching. "What brought this on?"

Danny shrugged, which looked considerably more interesting upside down. "Just – most of the ghosts I fought when I first got my powers, I could tell that they were human before. But these ones Amity's been getting lately? I mean, it's just kind of hard to imagine Undergrowth or whatever ever having been anything other than a giant plant-monster."

"You've encountered animal ghosts, haven't you?"

"Yeah, but I don't think there's any animals that can slither into your dreams." Danny bobbed downwards, his overlong bangs brushing the pages of his math textbook.

Clockwork couldn't help a small smile. His young charge was bright, but it sometimes took a few tries to fit an idea into his head. "More than just humans leave their spirits behind."

Danny rotated slowly upright again. "And you don't mean animals? What else _is_ there?" He paused. "Actually, I'm not sure I want to know."

Clockwork turned back to his viewing glass. "Gods and idols have limited lifetimes. Not as limited as humans, but limited nonetheless. Once they lose the last of their worshippers, once their names are forgotten, their lives are over." He smiled, small and secretive. "But that doesn't always mean the end of them. You should ask your girlfriend about it, she's undoubtedly better-versed in neo-paganism than I am."

Danny laughed. "Yeah, I doubt it. Sam might be goth, but she's also Jewish."

The clock tower returned to what passed for silence, broken only by the soft, almost unnoticeable ticking, whirring, and whispering as various time-keeping devices counted off seconds in various timelines, and the occasional frustrated noise as Danny faced off against his most difficult and tenacious enemy: math. It was a few long minutes before he said anything else.

"So what about you?"

"Hm?"

"What about you?" Danny repeated, leaning forward. "Were you ever… I mean, have you just always been in charge of the time stream, or -"

"If that's your idea of politely asking someone how they died, perhaps you should reconsider your approach." Clockwork was still smiling, though. "To answer your question, though, yes, I have always been in charge of time. Ever since there _was_ time."

"So you weren't human?"

"I didn't say that."

"Okay, now you've lost me."

"I'm the master of time, Daniel. Not one of its subjects." As if to illustrate the point, the ghost shifted into his long-bearded, ancient form. Seeing the look of absolute befuddlement on Danny's face, he sighed and elaborated. "I haven't died yet."

"Wait, but – you're a ghost?"

"Yes. And have been since the dawn of time."

"But you're not dead yet."

"No."

"So how is that possible?"

Polynomials, apparently, weren't the only concepts Danny struggled to grasp. Clockwork paused, deliberating how best to turn the idea to make it fit into the available space in the teenager's head. "I can travel at will through all of time, Daniel. I once told you that the Observants see time as a parade?"

"Yeah, I remember," Danny replied.

"They way you and most humans experience time is as a part of the parade, stuck on a float which carries you forward along a predetermined path. You can never go back, or jump ahead, and you cannot see beyond the floats ahead of and behind you. The Observants feel so powerful because they watch from the sidelines, but even their view is limited."

"And you see the whole thing from above, with all the twists and turns it could possibly take. You told me all of this," Danny sighed.

"It doesn't seem to have sunk in." Clockwork tapped the glass with his staff. It went dark, but only for a moment. Seconds later, a brilliant flare of white light scorched Danny's retinas.

"This is the beginning of this universe, and of time itself."

"The Big Bang?" Danny guessed.

"Exactly. If I wanted to, I could be there." The scene in the glass flickered, a quick succession of images crossing its face. "Or the French Revolution. Or the extinction of the dinosaurs. Or ten years into your future."

Danny grimaced. "Let's not go there. I don't get how this is supposed to explain anything, though."

"Your future self was able to return to your present, before he was created. And that was with the help of my medallion."

Danny shifted uncomfortably. "So you're saying you can just travel to any point in time?" he asked, obviously eager to change the subject. "Wait, if there's a living you wandering around right now, then… _you're_ from the future?"

The look Danny got in return said, quite clearly, that he had sailed gleefully over the point and landed several miles away. "Wasn't the whole point of this conversation that I'm not bound by your temporal restrictions? But yes, from your point of view, I am -" Clockwork sighed heavily – "_from the future_."

Danny sat motionless for a long moment, before shaking his head. "I think I should have stuck to the polynomials."

…

When Danny wandered up of the basement, head full of whirling numbers and letters, his whole family was gathered in the living room. "What's -" he started, before it clicked that there was one person extra. "Jazz? You're back from school?"

"Danny!" The redhead jumped up and dashed across the room, flinging her arms around her little brother's neck despite his protests. "I'm so glad to see you!"

"Glad to see you too, Dr. Freud! How's Berkeley?"

Jazz grinned from ear to ear. "It's amazing. All of my classes are fascinating, although I think my Deviant  
Behaviour prof doesn't believe in ghosts, so if I really want to publish that thesis on ghost envy -"

"Whoa, please tell me you're not spending _all_ your time doing schoolwork? Jazz, you of all people should know how important human interaction is to proper mental development."

Jazz' smile got a little more secretive at that. "Then you're going to be _very_ happy to hear that I have a boyfriend."

Danny blinked. "Sorry, I thought my bookworm sister just told me that she has a boyfriend."

"You heard right." Jazz was practically bouncing. "His name's Cal, he's a physics major, and he's _wonderful_."

"Physics major?" Danny raised an eyebrow.

"Even I don't understand half of what he talks about," Jazz admitted, mock-seriously. "But seriously, never get him started on the nature of time."


	12. 12: Fifteen Ways

AN: Based on Daphne Gottlieb's poem, 'Fifteen Ways to Stay Alive'. The first and probably last time I will ever write fanpoetry.

* * *

**fifteen ways to become your evil future self**

1: Start with 'once upon a time'.

2: Be curious. Develop a need to know what is on the other side. Open doors, boxes, portals. Anything locked must have a key. Find it. Open it. There was never an apple that was not worth the trouble you got into for stealing it.

3: Believe like a child, that stubborn fragile certainty. Dress up. Play pretend. Be assured that you are right, you are good, and the world is made for you.

4: 'Once upon a time, there was a hero'.

5. Be selfish. If you are a child, you cannot be responsible. If you are a child, you cannot be accountable. There is an account to be made; there is red in the other ledger and you know just how they can cross it out. Be assured that you are right. After all, you are good, and the world is made for you.

6: Know your strength. Know the power of your arms, of your words, of your thoughts. Know the power of your choices. You are not a child anymore, and your powers are not a child's plaything. Know your limits. Push them.

7: Open your mouth. Open your eyes. The world is dark and full of terrors, and you are one of them. Was not the world made for you?

8: 'Once upon a time, there was a villain'.

9: Be curious. If there is a barrier, there must be something on the other side. Break it. Open it. There was never a box so full of horrors that it hadn't hope buried somewhere in its depths.

10: Be confident in your powers. You know them so well, and understand them so poorly; rely on them, they will not fail you.

11: Trust your voice. Speak. Shout. Scream.

12: Reveal your secrets. Trust your enemies. Fear your friends. The world is dark and full of terrors, and you are nothing but a child.

13: Fall silent.

14: Kill yourself. Kill yourself, and die a thousand small slow deaths. Reflect in the moment of your dying on parallelism and circular narratives, on how at the end of all his trials, the hero always finds his way safely back home. You have crossed water and fire to make it this far. Kill yourself, and live.

15: 'And they all live happily ever after'.


End file.
